


What Happened Last Stag Night?

by alexxphoenix42



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Job, Drunk Sex, First Kiss, Infidelity, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, PWP, Pre-relationship to relationship, first shag, hot snogging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/pseuds/alexxphoenix42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This ficlet imagines what might have happened on John's Stag Night  if a client hadn't come calling that evening. Based on portions of "The Sign of Three" in series 3 of Sherlock BBC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Happened Last Stag Night?

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of a reboot. I really didn't like the original thing I wrote - I whipped it out pretty quickly! ;) So, no great plot points have changed (snort) but I upgraded the whole thing. Hope you enjoy.

\-------

It was Sherlock’s idea – a pub crawl themed by streets where they’d solved important murders. Was it four or five bars before Sherlock picked a fight with a footballer in a leather jacket? John wasn’t sure. Things had gotten a bit hazy after that last round of shots, but he'd dragged his friend outside and caught them a cab to Baker Street shortly thereafter.

John fell back into his arm chair. It was good to be home, but no, that wasn’t quite right. He lived with Mary now. He was just visiting 221B. John rubbed at his forehead.  It was too early to call it a night, but his higher brain functions were failing fast. Sherlock handed him a glass of scotch and cradling his own, plopped into the chair opposite.

“Cheers.” Sherlock toasted him before taking a slug.

“Cheers, mate!”  John knocked back a swallow of his own – ah, the good stuff.  It burned its way down his throat deliciously.

When had everything gone so fuzzy?  John couldn’t stop giggling. He leaned forward to ask Sherlock a question and almost slid from his chair to the floor.  John reached out to steady himself, and instead toppled right into Sherlock's lap.

“Oh sor . . .”

John’s voice trailed off into his friend’s stomach. John meant to be reasonable, meant to sit right back up, but somehow he couldn’t find the energy to be arsed.   Sherlock was surprisingly comfortable.  The smell of pub and cheap beer clung to Sherlock’s cotton shirt, but under that, John detected a subtle spicy tang that . . . intrigued him.  John squirmed closer to breathe in the warm scent trying to place it. It smelled so familiar and so exotic at the same time. John inhaled deeply then relaxed utterly, settling in with a sigh. It was some minutes later that with a thin trickle of sanity, John realized he was actually nuzzling into his best mate’s belly. He blushed hotly and pushed away.

 “Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”

John looked up, and froze, pinned in place by Sherlock’s wild-eyed stare.  They waited a heartbeat, then another – two men, their eyes locked, caught in place in the sitting room, one seated, the other on his knees before him clutching his splayed thighs. Sherlock broke the tableau as he lifted a hand. Gently he traced down the curve of John’s cheek with a fingertip.

 “John,” he rasped out like it was a question all on its own.

Without a thought, John answered him in a surge. He rose up to straddle him, sealing their mouths in a desperate kiss. Sherlock’s lips parted as John ran his tongue over them, and John, taking that as invitation, dove in with a strangled groan. Sherlock grabbed his shoulders for support, melting as John completely ransacked him with his mouth alone. John found himself swimming past the taste of scotch on the man's breath before finding that same elusive spice he had smelled before. It was simply essence of Sherlock finally his to devour. John cupped the back of Sherlock’s head, and swept his tongue shamelessly deep into the man’s mouth as if trying to drink him down. Sherlock shuddered, and smoothed his hands down to grab John’s arse, squeezing double handfulls.  John almost cried out as he pressed in, his wild mouth leaving Sherlock's lips, free now to rain sweet kisses over gorgeous cheekbones, and closed eyelids, smearing over his jaw and across his throat, working his way down the smooth column until he reached collar.

“Shirt,” John mumbled. “Too much shirt.”  

They parted, a flurry of hands ripping at buttons until they were stripped to the waist. Sherlock's eyes were open pools of want as they reached for each other. The first touch of skin on skin was like an electrocution. John's eyes snapped shut as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's bare torso, hanging on as the sensations coursed through him. Sherlock panted short breaths next to his ear, holding on just as tightly. For a moment, John couldn't even move, so overwhelmed was he at finally, _finally_ getting to touch. Just this was almost too much. He turned his head to bury his face in soft, black curls, and bit back a sob.

"Shhhh." A warm hand moved softly down the length of John's back, and warmth shot through his veins to pool directly into his rising cock. John rolled his hips against the answering heat at Sherlock's groin without even thinking, and both men jerked at the contact. It was like sinking into fucking lava, just this barest touch with layers and layers of fabric still between them. John groaned. The thought flashed through his addled mind that anything more just might kill him. Sherlock turned his head then to press kisses wherever he could reach, mapping the topography of John’s face and neck with each touch of his lips. When he licked his way down John’s throat, and bit lightly at the juncture of neck and shoulder, John arched as if tasered.

“JESUS  CHRIST.”

“No, just me.” Sherlock smiled against John’s skin.  He pulled back to catch John’s gaze again, suddenly serious, his pale eyes gone deep and dark.

“John, bed. My bed. Now.”

“Oh God, yes.”

Why had they never done this before? John had no answers as he stood, and pulled the lanky detective upright after him.  They tried to kiss and shed their remaining clothes as they staggered toward the bedroom. John sucked in a breath as Sherlock shucked his pants, and stood nude before him, his upright cock a lovely curve.

“God, you’re a beautiful thing.”

“John, come here.”

Sherlock held out his hands, and pulled John on top of him as they tumbled back across the bed. They rolled over and over, finally stopping with Sherlock sprawled on top. He trailed slow, wet kisses over John’s chest, across the furred plane of his belly, then swallowed his cock down in one go. John nearly choked at the feel of Sherlock’s warm mouth enveloping him. 

"God, God, Oh my God." Nonsense spilled from John's lips as the man moved slowly over him, tugging him inside out with each pass of his full, soft lips. John closed his eyes, letting the feeling rock over him like a tidal wave sweeping him far, far out to sea. When Sherlock popped off, he keened at the loss of him, but Sherlock merely shifted, leaving a hand on his hip while he fumbled at a drawer in his nightstand with the other. He returned victorious with a half-full bottle of lube.

"What?" He raised an eyebrow at John's expression as he popped the cap open.

"I didn't think you did that sort of thing . . ." John trailed off, distracted by the sight of a flushed, naked Sherlock Holmes squeezing a stripe of lube over his long fingers.

"You didn't think I touched myself?" Sherlock asked with a smile in his voice as he snapped the lid closed.

"I wasn't sure. You said it wasn't your area . . . you said you were married to your work." John licked his lips as Sherlock dropped the bottle to prowl closer.

"John, I said a lot of stupid things. I hope you'll forgive me." Sherlock reached out to wrap slick fingers around John's erection, and fireworks exploded across his brain as they moved. John fairly shook at the sensations rippling over him. When he could peel an eye open, it was to be gifted with the sight of Sherlock's clever pale fingers working over his dusky length, the corona of the fat head slipping in and out of the man's fist. Sherlock watched them, hand and cock moving together almost reverently, changing direction, pressure, and speed to focus on every reaction of John's with each new movement. He kept away from a steady rhythm that would surely have tipped John over, preferring to torment him as he scrutinized him like a specimen under his microscope.

John swallowed, barely hanging on by a thread, amazed at being the epicenter of Sherlock's intense scrutiny, the detective's silvery eyes burning holes in his skin as they swept over him. "Oh God, Sherlock, I can't . . ." John thrashed his head against the pillow.

Sherlock's eyes snapped up to regard his face, and softened at what he saw. He seemed to take pity on him then, letting his hand fall into a repeating slide as he moved closer. “Do you know what I thought about, John?" His lips grazed John's ear as his voice dropped to a rumbling thunder. "Can you guess what I fantasized as I pleasured myself?"

John bit his lip and shook his head, beyond words.

"You, John. I thought of you," Sherlock purred. "I thought of touching you, of making you come in my bed. Will you do that for me now? Come for me, John. I want to _see_ you.” Damn if that wasn't the sexiest thing that anyone had ever said to him in bed . . . or anywhere else. John felt a heaviness pour through him, and with a cry, he came, his body emptying itself out at Sherlock's command, warmth spilling over the man's eager fingers, and across John's stomach.

When John could move again, he ran his hand over his lover's body, from shoulder to flank, and back again marveling at the smooth skin, and incredible angles of this gorgeous man. Sherlock stared at him like some forest creature caught in the lights of a passing car until John laughed and kissed the stunned expression away. John reached down and gathered up Sherlock's thick cock, still hard and straining against his belly, and squeezed it gently. "God. Just look at you," he breathed.

"John, you don't have to . . ."

"Shhhhh." John silenced him with a warm, open-mouthed kiss. He swiped his hand through the ejaculate across his belly and used it to coat Sherlock's erection. Slowly, then faster and faster, John pumped Sherlock closer to orgasm. “Love, my love,” he whispered so quietly against Sherlock's neck as the man gasped, his eyes squeezed close, going rigid as he pumped out his own release. They collapsed together then, legs tangled, blankets pulled half over before oblivion dragged them down.

\-----

Sherlock woke to the click of the outer flat door closing. The unforgiving light of day lashed across his eyes, and he blinked at it, struggling up to one elbow. His gaze, once he could focus, landed on one lone sock tossed forlornly across the bedroom floor. It was an argyle sock, John’s sock. The previous evening came rushing back to him then.  John. John and him. John and Mary. John and Mary's wedding next week. John no longer in his bed. Sherlock could just picture the doctor walking quickly down the steps, and across the sidewalk, riding on the tube on his way back to _her_ with one sock on and one ankle laid bare. What was next? What could possibly come next for them?  

Sherlock groaned, sinking back to the bed. His pillow still smelled of John, and he pulled it over his head. This was a right cock-up, and it would need some very thorough thinking to sort it all out. Of course there were always so many variables present with other people involved, and a wider chance for error to occur. Sherlock ground the pillow closer to his eyes, blocking out the sunlight that did nothing but aggravate his aching head. "Bollocks," he sighed. 

 


End file.
